There was no stopping the berserk bear. Brondgast was cutting a swath through the orcs, and his roar was one of the loudest sounds of the battle. Another was horns sounding from the south. The Rangers had arrived. Brondgast was so into the battle he didn't hear the horns.

Meneldor grabbed some orcs in his razor-sharp talons and flew upwards with them, throwing them down from a great height. The Great Eagle was also not to be denied. He circled around, facing Carn Dum and gave a loud screech, the call of the herald of Mandos. He called a challenge to those inside the mountain. All doubt, fear and pain was thrown off in the heat of battle. This was for Dirk, his brother in all but skin.

He gave his call again, the last Eagle of Middle-Earth. The challenge rang out loud and clear. For him, it was victory or death. No other alternative was with him in his eagle eyes. The herald of Mandos called, and many would follow that call to Mandos' halls that day.

Djazi froze, thought a bit about Anorast's proposal and then grinned when he realised the possibilities. With the Knights thought dead, no-one would suspect their arrival.

“It might work,’he whispered back. “But it will be difficult.”

“How?’Anorast asked.

Djazi was about to answer when another orc lunged at him.

A frantic parry and vicious downward slash later he said: ‘Tenga can only cast complete illusions on the weak-minded and the dying. On the living he can only help them fool themselves. Encourage them to see what they want to see and to look no further.’

Again they were interupted this time by an overenthusiastic orc trying to skewer Anorast.

“We will have to convince the orcs somehow that we’re dead,’Djazi continued afterwards. “Preferably they should see us fall.”

Anorast nodded while Djazi sidestepped another attack. Blood flew when he smoothly turned and slashed his opponent’s back.

“We’ll separate and instruct the other,’Anorast decided.

“Right,’Djazi answered. He was about to say more when horns sounded. At first it wasn’t clear to whom the horns belonged but once they saw the flags there was little doubt. Only the rangers would fly the white tree. De effect was immediate. Fear and chaos spread through the orcs and though they did not break yet, some of the smaller orcs were already trying to desert despite their sergeants’ whips and it wouldn’t be long before the whole company would cut their losses and flee.

Inspiration flashed across Anorast’s face and he grabbed Djazi’s arm.

“Go with them,’he whispered.

‘What? “Djazi asked, frowning. He suspected what Anorast was aiming at but he needed to be sure.

“Take one or two Knights with you that you trust to pull this off and join up with the orcs when they flee.’Anorast said. ‘We need more information about what is going on up there and if you could sabotage them it would greatly improve both our and Dirk’s chances of surviving this.’

Djazi nodded and thought for a moment.

“I'll take Tempest and Erinhue if we can avoid a repeat from earlier,’he finally said, “Tempest knows orcs well enough to imitate them successfully and Erinhue has Agarak to hide him if all else goes wrong.’

It was Anorast’s turn to nod.

‘Good choice. Now go.’He said, emphasizing the last with a light shove. Luckily for Djazi, Tempest and Erinhue were fighting together and they weren’t too hard to find in the melee. Once he’d fought his way to them he quickly explained the plan to them. Tempest looked dubious but Erinhue was grinning a grin that reminded Djazi straight of his Tribe’s Legends about Rai the Fox.

“Don’t worry lad,’Erinhue said. “I’ll make sure the Old Worm behaves. Now what are we waiting for we have a camp to infiltrate and vile plans to sabotage.’

Tempest rolled her eyes and Djazi could not help but laugh.

In the end it was almost too easy. As predicted the orcs soon broke away. It was more a rout than a retreat and no-one paid attention to three more orcs. They had few close calls however. At one point Djazi had stumbled and for a few moments he’d slipped out of his role. An orc sergeant lhad ooked a bit too closely at them and had almost been ready to call them out. Djazi had hunched his shoulders a bit more and had thought: Just three more Uruks, and if the dark one is walking oddly it is because he has a cut on his leg.

The sergeant had turned away with a snarl about not waiting for the wounded.

Midnight. Dirk's awareness of the universe without had ebbed completely. He had only a vague inkling of stars and stones and blue cloaks. His existence had been wholly swallowed by the living rock of Carn-dûm. His footsteps did not echo either in narrow passage or massive hall. Like the light and Dirk himself, the darkness consumed all, even sound.

Even with absolute blackness veiling his eyes, the Zaugoth navigated the treacherous subterranean labyrinth without a slip or bump. He strode as confidently as if Carn-dûm had been his home for his whole life.

With every step, he descended deeper and deeper into the bowels of Angmar.

Time was a concept that had no meaning. Had he been within the depths for an hour or an age? He did not care. The Zaugoth was home, and home made him feel power. Pure power to kill or heal at a whim, to fly amongst the stars, to crush mountains to dust, to make or destroy Middle-earth as he saw fit.

After such time as none could describe, the young one's eyes perceived a light. At first, only a pinprick in the distance. He was in a long, arrow-straight steeply-descending passage. It was wide enough for four horses to ride abreast and tall enough for a troll to walk full-upright. The light grew apace, until he could see that the walls and floor were granite with veins of pyrite, polished perfectly smooth.

Then, seemingly no time had passed and he stood at the end of the passage, darkness behind and intense light ahead. And in between, an intricate gate of iron, hung on massive hinges and elaborately decorated with intertwining serpents, spitting fire.

The Zaugoth, leaving a slick trail of blood and the fluids of his poisonous infection upon the smooth stone had wound his way all the way to the threshold of the inner-most chamber of Angmar.

He pushed the gate, which swung noiselessly wide to allow him passage.

Meneldor repeated his challenge, and this time it was answered. Two cold-drakes flew up out of Carn Dum to meet him. They were intent on tearing him wing from wing and letting his pieces fall on his companions.

The Eagle flew straight up, screeching his battle cry as they followed him, their own cries of despair and hate echoing among the mountains.

Now, Meneldor turned and dived at them. He would take them both on, and he couldn't after remember the battle. For the battle madness was upon him and a red glare was in his eyes.

Screeches and cries sounded in the air. His talons and beak taught him terrible things. He would keep them from attacking his friends down below, and his screeches became deafening, the cry of the herald of Mandos.

It brought memories of the last battle of Mordor when he and his companions dived upon the Nazgul and their mounts. The only thing missing was Orodruin blazing in the background.

Brondgast was oblivious to the battle far up in the air above him, as he was in his own battle madness, growing in his wrath as he fought the orcs who were attacking his friends. His forebear Beorn would be proud of him the way he was fighting.

Erinhue saw the Orc sargeant step back towards D’jazi who had stumbled in the rush to escape. The disguised bard was prepared to stop the sergeant but killing him was out of the question. He was just a step or two away from the bard and it would have been an easy shot but the results would be disastrous for the infiltrating Knights.

Knowing that his own disguise would hold up better to close scrutiny Erinhue’s quick mind was working out what he would say when he interrupted the sergeant and called his attention away from D’jazi. As the bard prepared to call out, the sergeant turned away from the injured straggler.

This averted disaster gave way to a more complex predicament. The unexpected arrival of reinforcements that caused the rout had come to the enemy’s attention. As the sounds of fighting died down behind them, the sounds of a large approaching force grew louder and louder by the second.

A large band of orcs was moving in the opposite direction of those fleeing the battle. The officers here out ranked the sergeant of the smaller squad. There was a brief somewhat bloody discussion and then the entire troop continued on, moving back towards the Mithril Knights and the band of Rangers.

Meneldor screeched out a battle cry from high above. Erinhue looked up to see that there would be no help from above. The Great Eagle was more than busy battling a couple of cold drakes high in the sky. Brondgast had transformed, his bear form’s claws and snapping jaws dispatching all who approached but even the bear’s great strength and courage would not hold long against this superior force.

The disguised Knights had no choice but to follow orders and run back into battle along with their supposed comrades. As he ran Erinhue tried desperately to think of some way to avert what could possibly be the coming slaughter of his friends. Desperation quickly became frustration. That frustration was near enough to anger that the spirit of the sword Clarion was awakened. It was howling in grim anticipation of the fight and cared not if friend or foe fell to its blood lust.

The first instinct was to fight the instinct of the berserker spirit but Erinhue realized that was the only card he had to play if his friends were to be spared. That blessing could also be a curse. In spite of all that had happened, the bard had no guarantee what would happen should he give in to Clarion’s shrieked demands.

The distance was closing quickly and there was little time left in which to make a decision. The lives of his friends were in deep jeopardy either way and they would have no chance, no chance at all with this descending multitude.

Erinhue stopped running forward and allowed the masses to move past him. He caught D’jazi’s questioning eye and winked quickly in return. In the rush forward no one noticed that the bard was moving backward. He wanted the main body of orcs to be in front of him, in between him and his friends.

As the passing ranks thinned around him, Erinhue stopped thinking and listened to the shrieking of his sword. Sensing a chance at release, the berserker spirit increased its demand and the bard did not resist.

The sound Clarion was making in his head was reaching an insufferable peak. Erinhue tried to hold on to his awareness as the blood thirsty rush of possession tried to overtake him. As he struggled to maintain some measure of control, Erinhue gave himself over to the sword’s demand. He reached back and snatched Clarion from its scabbard. The moment he grasped the hilt of the sword, the pressure building within became intolerable. Clarion screamed its victory as Erinhue threw back his head and howled like a thing insane

The orcs were running back to the battlefield and Djazi was frantically trying to find a way to get them out of this mess. Out of the corner of his eye saw Erinhue stop. He cast the bard a curious look but Erinhue only gave him a smile and a wink. It told Djazi nothing except that the Bard was up to something.

He tried to stop, tried to reach the the Bard but an orc shoved him in the back and he stumbled forward. By the time he had righted himself he had lost sight of both Erinhue and Tempest. Tempest was still under the illusion he felt though now that she was out of his sight he could not renew it if she broke it. The illusion had only rested lightly on the Bard as Agarak was perfectly capable of doing the job himself but still Djazi felt it when Erinhue deliberately shattered it. It was followed almost immediately by two simultaneous screams.

Djazi recognized the first high-pitched keening as Clarion’s. The second,deeper bellow sounded like Erinhue and yet not. The Berserker was free.

The reaction was immediate. Chaos spread quickly from Erinhue’s position as the Berserker tore through the ranks. A great many orcs died but still Djazi saw it would not be enough. The Bard was still surrounded and even as the Berserker he ran the very real risk of being overwhelmed. Somehow he had to help.

Orcs were naturally quarrelsome creatures Djazi had learned and backstabbing was nothing unusual even right in the middle of fighting. He lowered his stance even further, changed his appearance to that of a smaller mountain orc and turned towards the uruk-hai sergeant pushing some towards the carnage.

“We ain’t crazy!”Djazi snarled, using his limited knowledge of Black speech and stabbed the Uruk in the side. It was not a deadly wound but certainly a painful one. Djazi however did not want the Uruk dead. He wanted him angry and ready to kill whoever had “betrayed” him. The creature bellowed and turned, his scimitar raised but Djazi had already retreated and the Uruk-sergeant beheaded a relatively innocent orc instead.

The rest of the mountain orcs had not seen Djazi stab the Uruk but they had seen the Uruk kill one of their own. Fearful already and reluctant to face the Berserker while the sergeant remained behind they did not hesitate to fall on him like rabid wolves. Djazi smiled almosty nastily and took on the guise of an Uruk-hai this time and beheaded a mountain orc for ‘insubordination’ before disappearing again letting another Uruk take the blame.

He repeated this a couple of time changing disguises like a chameleon, sowing further mayhem in his wake as old rivalries and quarrels resurfaced and the orcs stupidly forgot the berserker still raging in their midst in favor of fighting amongst themselves. It was the nastiest kind of sabotage, ruthless and honorless but right now Djazi didn’t care. His friends were in danger and he had lost too many dear to him already. He was not going to let anyone die if he could prevent it.

As Djazi, Erinhue, and she had initially entered the battle disguised, Tempest found herself in a strange place, mentally speaking. Surrounded by orcs, she seemed transported back in time to her days in Mordor, and she was keenly aware how far she had come since then, but also how far she still had to go. The strange thing was that she instinctively felt more comfortable fighting next to orcs than humans, and especially elves, for here was a battle that she understood. The Black speech sprang to her lips easily again, as though it were her native tongue and the sound did not seem harsh to her ears.

But she lost herself briefly, and in so doing, lost Djazi and Erinhue in the surge of orcs. She realized her peril immediately, for the spell might cease to work with Djazi not within reach, and here she was, in the smack middle of a sea of blood thirsty orcs.

Gazing across the battlefield, she frowned slightly. The orcs were spilling out on the field like black ants, swarming to a honey comb. They were more than she had guessed, and this hoard would be difficult to overcome even without a dragon descending into their midst. Which, while she was thinking of him, she turned her dark eyes back towards the mountain and tried hard to imagine what was going on inside Dirk's head at this very moment. Had he found the dragon? Or had he failed? Or, worse yet, had he fallen to the darkness within?

Her slight reveries were cut short by an unearthly howl that suddenly filled the air. A howl that, unfortunately, she knew well.

She cursed loudly, using every evil word she could think of in the Black speech, causing even a few of the orcs fighting around her to gaze in wonder in her direction. She stared back at them. "It's my stupid friend," she gritted her teeth. "He's come to play the hero again, though more than likely he's come to murder us all."

"Friend?" the orcs frowned in puzzlement.

"If we live out this day, maybe I'll explain it to you. Personally." she replied, but she caught a glimpse of Djazi through the mass of bewildered orcs and somehow made her way towards him. "Do you think the Berserker will recognize us in our disguises?" she muttered.

"If we drop the disguise now, we will not survive. There are too many orcs between us and our allies," he replied swiftly. He cast his eye back towards the bard. "I cannot tell---is he in control of it?"

"Well, I, for one, do not want to find out. I've had enough close encounters with the Berserker to last me many lifetimes. I say we stay far enough way to let him work his magic with these orcs, and then see what happens." She wiped the sweat from her brow. "By the way, good work stirring up the orcs against each other too. I noticed. Couldn't have done it better myself, though technically, right now, you're disguised as a mountain orc, and I'm a Uruk. I think I have to try to kill you."

Djazi blinked. He had never heard Tempest tell a joke before, and felt himself grip his weapon just in case.

She smiled wryly at him and he couldn't help think, Erinhue's a demon, a dragon is sure to appear shortly, certain death lingering all around them, and she's trying to be funny. The world certainly seemed to be going to hell faster than he anticipated.

“A fine mess we’rrre, in…I hope Aiwendil’s owl’s message was correct. We’ve been away toooo long on those missions…I pray to Arada the lads and lasses are still alive and kicking. That message made the hairrr down my back rise a few inches”

Thalos was feeling a bit uneasy as the Rangers and Parador rode hard to Carn-dûm…time was closing in on the riders of Gondor. The sweat plastered the hair against the horses skin…making it glisten in Arda’s hot sun…the heat was almost unbearable with the heavy armour and weapons worn by the riders…it became even heavier with each hoof digging into the soft dirt…pushing hard with such great force that you could see the muscles along the upper legs of each horse bugling with great strength.

Hard they rode…until at last they reached Carn-dûm…High above their heads they could hear the screeching of a mighty eagle….the clacking of metal to metal…and then Parador took in a whiff…strong it was “I smell Orc!”

“Aye, there is devilry among us” Thalos concurred…

Their swords were out of the sheaves before they even dismounted their horses…Thalos branded his axe and hammer made of the finest ore this side of White Mountain. The years of a hard warrior’s life were catching up with the Dwarven warrior…and yet he could still handle a swift sword in one hand and swing a blazing axe in the other taking down an army of enemies without losing breath or a single hair of his graying red beard.

Quickly they jumped in to a run giving their legs and feet a strong firm grip while climbing over the large healthy rocks of Carn-dûm…while pulling themselves over the edge of the rocks a look of shock and confusion crossed their faces…all at the same time. They just laid there in a stupor trying to survey the chaos that was taking place…and why were even there. Did the message get misunderstood? Owlish was not their strongest language.

“If I’m not mistaken” whispered Parador…those are Orcs down there...both mountain orcs and uruks. I don't see Dirk, Erinhue, Tempest, Guru, Idril, or Vana? What devil trap have we been delivered to?

"One of the Orc seem to be having a fit of some kind…and branding a familiar sword”…

Parador was drawn toward the ill-tempered orc…something was familiar about this one…As she drew near her sense of danger out weighed her curiosity to find out what sword this orc was waving around violently...in that instant the orc jumped at Parador raising the blade over her head bringing it down hard… but then the blade stopped short of a hair of slashing and crushing her skull wide open. She stared at him with such tensity...ignoring the fact of how close she came to being killed...

The orc handling the blade looked so familiar to Parador…even though his face was twisted and distorted with intense rage…her reflection caught the shiny mirror like finish off the blade…she could see her face staring back at her…it was Clarion…and the orc was………..Erinhue!!

Was Clarion growing a conscience? What stopped the Berserker from striking?

As she looked around she thought she caught a glimpse of a uruk that looked a bit like Tempest…what was going on here…why the disguises.?

"Tempest...is that you? gripping her sword handle even harder just in case

Last edited by Parador~J on Sat Jul 14, 2012 2:10 pm, edited 4 times in total.

The battle was a blur far above the din of the battle down below. Meneldor battled the two cold-drakes furiously. It was unlike the battle of Mordor, when his brethren were beside him. He was all alone against terrible odds.

Back at Taniquetil, hie fellow Eagles dared not breathe as they watched their brother battle. They had never seen him in this state.

Then the odds were evened slightly. One of the cold-drakes plummetted to his doom, crushing the orcs down below in his ruin.

Meneldor dared not let down his guard even now. He knew there were more where these came from.

And also, he knew, even in the fever of his battle madness, the dragon was still down below. He would probably be worse than ten Ancalagons.

He went into the battle for the umpteenth time. It was not for nothing that he was known as Meneldor the Swift. As he dived and soared in battle, he was a blur.

Down below, there were twin tornadoes plowing through the horde of orcs and Uruks. On one side was the Berserker, mercilessly hacking at his foes.

On the other was Brondgast, a true Beorning, grown big in his wrath. Orcs went flying around his paws and claws of death. A red glare was in his eyes as he whirled and batted and roared loudly, the fury was hot within him. Beorn would be proud to see him like this.

The divisive seeds sown by D’jazi quickly bore fruit and disention ran rife in the ranks of the Orcs. As those at the forefront of the attacking horde descended upon the remaining Mithril Knights, the rear ranks were waging war against each other.

Distrust was a part of Orc nature and many of them already hated the uruk-hai Uruk Hai who had been set above them and took through advantage of the situation. No great magic was necessary to get them to turn on a much closer and possibly more hated enemy.

In the very rear ranks, a giant Uruk Hai officer had succumbed to the blood lust. Brawny arms swung a powerful, rune carved sword that gleamed as if the blade were edged by lightening. One wide slashing stroke beheaded three Orcs. Two more died as the sword slashed back into position. Orc and Uruk Hai alike pressed back to avoid the deadly reach of the sword.

Erinhue heard himself howling even though he no longer made any effort to do so. It was his voice, changed and full of madness and rage, but his voice still. The Bard knew he was running, even though it felt as if he were standing still, observing from a distance. He could feel the weight of Clarion’s hilt gripped tightly in his hand even though he could see both hands before him were empty.

His released anger had triggered the transformation. Erinhue realized that The Berserker was unleashed and running wild upon the battle field.

What amazed him was that The Berserker was free but he was not standing in the Lucky Fortune. Erinhue looked around him. There was no trace of the inn or anything else but his strangely blurred, observer viewpoint of the battlefield action. This thought brought him back to present reality. If the Berserker was on the field, so was he.

When he tried to focus more clearly on the fast moving images of the battle, the bard noticed that his actions, or more aptly the actions of the Berserker were effected, the reactions were not as sharp and he was moving more slowly. In this brief moment he nearly did not escape a lethal lunge meant to run him completely through.

All right, Erinhue thought, that is one way to get control and a good way to get me killed. Clarion screeched its agreement. The Bard made himself momentarily content to sit back and allow the Berserker to act without interference.

A shift in the battle caused Erinhue to try and focus again to learn what was happening. Underlying whisperse and complaints informed him that his fellow Knights were no longer battling alone. A troop of Rangers had joined the fight. Erinhue exerted more effort to focus and move forward from the rear guard position the Berserker had taken up on the field.

The more he maintained focus the clearer his vision became but the slower he moved and the more he found he had to concentrate on the battle and how he moved within it. So this was the key, there could indeed be control of the berserker spirit but it would cost him speed, strength and ferocity. In time perhaps he could find some happy medium or even gain enough control to dial Clarion’s power up and down as needed. With time, perhaps he might even be able to learn to adapt to the spirit’s speeded up perceptions and act within them and yet maintain himself.

Clarion’s scream in his head warned Erinhue of the death stroke aimed at his chest. The bard relinquished a measure of his focus to allow the Berserker’s speed and greater skill to save them both and dispatch the unfortunate Orc who thought he would be rewarded for bringing down the blood mad Uruk Hai.

Suddenly a face emerged in sharp contrast to the unfocused battle scene. Parador. Erinhue recognized her immediately. She had been the first Knight in Training that he had ever mentored. Her beautiful features appeared distorted, strained. With shock Erinhue realized what was happening. The Berserker was fighting against Mithril Knight Parador J. She had no chance.

Stop!

Erinhue cried aloud and pulled back as if yanking on the reins of his horse. The Berserker stayed the killing stroke and turned from Parador to find other fodder for his rage.

Staring at Tempest for a few seconds...she watched as the dark knight did a slow smirk of her upper lip…curling it up with a style only Tempest could do…and one that Parador knew so well.

She knew then who it was…but Thalos had not quite understood as of yet what was going on…with a battle cry he charged toward them swinging his axe and hammer. The Berserker let him know who was still in charge of this party …falling to the ground with a loud thud, Thalos let out a painful groan… “that was not supposed to happen”.

Tempest reached for Thalos hand before Parador had a chance to react…was she losing her skill of focus and quick reaction? Yes! She was completely out of focus… Tempest and Erinhue were Orcs! What other Mithril Knights were mad enough to play an ugly Orc…

Thalos watched with unbelief that an Uruk Hai was offering a hand of service…he just stared at Tempest not knowing how to respond! Parador quickly bent down and began helping him up…”You’re alright you big old Dwarf! It’s only Tempest”

“What! Tempest!?” Thalos stared hard at her…trying to see if it really was the dark knight in disguise…” I knew there was some devilry going on here”…

With sword still in hand…Parador began to do her part in slaying a few ugly Orcs…but making sure she didn't know them personally...and then there's the Berserker...who continued his crazed assult on whoever got in his way…

Vana quickly found her way in the fighting to standing beside Thalos and Parador. Nodding quickly she took up her sword again and fought to keep those that tried to work their way around behind the rangers and small group of Mithril Knights.

The battle raged on but it was no longer the Orcs and Uruk Hai against the MKs but they were against even themselves. The confusion was complete.

She had barely been aware of the deception of the three Knights to take on the guises of the enemies. Anorast joined the fighting with the Rangers and Vana and spoke quickly to those within hearing, "Djazi had a plan to disguise three of our number and it seems to be working. Be ever watchful that you do not turn upon our own!"

Vana nodded and realized that the crazy screaming and madness from the one side had to be Erinhue as the Beserker, for no one else would have screamed with such detachment and anger. She had no clue as to where Djazi or Tempest was. Had they fallen, were they still in the thick of battle?

It wasn't long before she became separated again from the other knights. Vana could no longer see Brondgast or the other Mithril Knights that she had arrived with and she started to fear for her friends and comrades in arms.

Growing tired yet staying in the heat of the battle was where the rangers and the Mithril Knights remained. Out numbered but strong. Slowly the numbers were dwindling but there seemed to be no end to the army of darkness! On they came. A few of the rangers had fallen and Vana realized she had been hit on her shoulder and must have been hit along her scalp for the blood ran down her face and she wiped it away but carried on. How long could they hold on? Would they survive and win or was all hope lost?

Spring come quickly!!~*Sister of the Twilight*~~*Daughter of the Moon*~

Meneldor had never fought like this in all his life. Not in the battle of Mordor when he faced the Nazgul and their ghastly mounts, not even over Angband in his far-off days when he answered the call of his lord Thorondor.

He darted and spun in his wrath. His beak, talons and wings taught him terrible things. Back on Taniquetil, his brethren gasped in disbelief. Was this the same Eagle as that one they knew as their companion? He had never fought like this before.

But it achieved the desired result. The second cold drake plummeted to the ground, crushing many orcs in his ruin.

Meneldor cried out in triumph and in challenge. For the moment, though there were more yet to come out, none came.

So, he dived down, harrying those Orcs below, helping out his new companions among the Mithril Knights. He made pass after pass until many held their hands above their heads, trying to shield themselves against an Eagle's wrath.

All dissention within the ranks of the Orc troops came to a reluctant end as the gravity of their situation took root in their minds. There was the enemy ahead which included a huge creature battling viciously. While it resembled a bear, it was larger and displayed a power they had never before seen in a creature of this type. It had all the physical characteristics of a dumb beast but the way it fought showed the acumen of a seasoned, human, warrior.

In the rear ranks a death wielding fiend was conducting its own personal slaughter on the field. Blood sprays and severed limbs loosed into the air marked the demon’s movements among the Orc forces. The howl of its blood lust rose above the din of battle and set their shriveled hearts quaking.

From above the great eagle was screaming as it swooped across the battlefield, talons raking, sharp beak rending anything in its flight path. The defeated cold drake crashed down on top of an entire squad. The huge bird was preying upon those that remained.

Faced with death from all sides, the officers swung their whips and bellowed commands. The underlings, realizing that they were now fighting for their very lives, submitted to the authority. The infighting stopped and all attention was focused on survival. Now united in desperation the enemy pressed on as a unified force.

"And who might you be? Do I know ye? Don't want to lop yer head off if I knew ya...ur got 10 seconds to give me my name...after that...OFF with yer head yer ugly orc!"

The scowling orc looked at Thalos in thought...as if trying to think of the old dwarf's name. The orc scratched his head while Thalos looked at the orc perplexed and irritated.

"Times up!" Thalos raised his axe

"Wait!!!" The orc brought his weapon down with an exasberated look...

"I've never met you...so I don't know your name!"

Thalos took a step back almost losing his balance...the orc talks...and he has manners to boot!

The orc leaned in to Thalos and whispered quickly...

"The name is Djazi...I'm with the Mithril Knights...and I would duck if I were you!"

Thalos complied by quickly ducking as the Berserker took a swing with his sword over Thalos head...after coming back up his short dwarven legs suddenly lifted off the ground...no longer could he feel Arda's firm dirt under his feet. Up...up Meneldor soared taking Thalos out of the mist of orcs ...to a safer area...which landed him next to the largest bear Thalos had ever seen!

Brondgast transfixed his gaze on the horrified Dwarf...Thalos was a much braver warrior than usual...but here lately...he's felt his knees starting to buclkle a bit...the bear snarled down at him...

"I'm a wee bit confused here...and I know yerrr don't have ANY intentions of eating me...AND...I believe I'm on your side! So I'll just go over here and take out some very ugly orcs while yer do ur thing over" **points away from himself** "there!"

Thalos pulled his axe and hammer up and charged after the ugliest orcs he could find!

Last edited by Parador~J on Thu Aug 09, 2012 10:06 am, edited 2 times in total.

The Berserker roared in frustration as an intended target was suddenly swipped up into the air and far out of reach. The disappointment was short lived. There were other targets, other enemies of the Light to be put to its sword. One of them was presently directly in front, in the same spot almost as the vanished victim.but not for very much longer

D'jazi's face suddenly swam up to fill Erinhue's vision. The Knight in Training was about to fall victim to the Berserker's pending stroke. Exerting all his concentration the Bard was able to halt motion of the Berserker's sword arm in mid stroke.

The Orc that was D'jazi in disguise, leaped to one side and rolled away from danger. He scrambled quickly to his feet holding up his weapon, ready to defend himself. He recognized the Berserker was upon him and silently prayed that Erinhue would somehow recognize him as a friend.

Clarion screamed and railed against the exertion of the Bard's controlling will. The spirit of the Berserker wanted to continue killing. The frustration of having one victim snatched away and another unwillingly spared was an affront that it would not abide

Erinhue fought back and maintained the motionless stance. He watched as D'jazi rolled away and struggled mightily to prevent the Berserker from following through with the attack on the disguised Knight in Training.

Brondgast snarled at Thalos, but that was all he could do, as in bear form, he could only speak the tongue of bears.

When Thalos spoke to him, he patted the dwarf with a paw, even in the midst of his battle madness. As he had told Erinhue, he knew a friend from a foe even in the midst of his rage.

As Thalos went forward, dispatching orcs with his axe, the Beorning continued his ursine assault on the orcs and Uruks. He mowed down many, and like his forbear Beorn, no blade would bite on him in his rage.

Thalos wasn't sure of his new found friend...he wasn't sure of much any more. The years of defending Middle-earth and the free folk had taken it's toll on his 250 year old body. The gray hair weaved through his beard...for each one there was a tale to tell...

Parador fought her way cautiously through the throng of Orcs...hesitating between each swipe of her sword...to check if they were friend or foe. The uglier they were...the harder she swung the blade... she would take them out with confidence in knowing they were foe.

"I believe we're getting the upper hand at last"...spoke Tempest as she stood next to Parador...causing the Mithril Knight warrior to jump...she quickly looked away to get her composure as not to let Tempest see her unsettling nerves from all that had taken place since she arrived thinking she would be part of a rescue effort...but turning out to be a game of 'Orc Vs Orc'

"I think we can wrap this up..."Pardor and Tempest swing their blades at the same time taking out a couple of orcs..."and call it a day...don't you think?"

"I agree"...Tempest turned toward her warrior companion...as she did so, Parador looked at her face curiously "hmmm...magic isn't what it used to be...I believe you are becoming Temptest again"... Parador stepped in closer touching Tempest's face lightly as flakes began to fall off.

"Really? It's about time". Tempest started rubbing her face while walking off briskly to find Erinhue with her words echoing behind her... "I was beginning to think I was going to stay an orc!" Parador followed from behind taking out any orcs that felt the need to keep the battle going...

Meneldor spotted them and followed flying low...plucking up the ugly orcs flinging them up in to the air...their arms flailing with screams of terror. Now Parador had not the honor of meeting the mighty eagle as of yet...gladly with a swordsman's skill sliced and diced their body's before it hit the ground....battles were an ugly thing.

The Berserker was still in full combat as Tempest made her way toward him scowling with impatience..."The time has come you take hold of the darkness that binds you...and show him who's in charge Warrior Bard"...Tempest swung her sword with such great force that when it met with Clarion's angry blade...it threw her several feet against the rocks at the foot of Carn-dûm.

"That's showing him"...smirked Thalos as he made his way toward Tempest to lend a hand in getting her back on her feet...

Parador felt a sudden shadow pass through her...she was sensing Dirk was close by...even Vana sensed it. Anorast noticed D'jazi's skin was beginning to flake away as well...the magic was wearing off. It became quiet...even The Berserker was standing still for once. All eyes were upon the Mithril Knights...the orcs began to encircle the battle worn imposters...

As Tempest was hurled across the field, Erinhue felt a great rush of relief. The Berserker had not tried to harm her and had simply blocked and repelled her blow. A quick thought of why this might have occurred brought with it a fresh idea. His friends had to touch the blade as their faces were reflected on its surface. If that touch gave them protection it also had some influence upon the blade and the Berserker. In a flash of inspiration, the bard shouted out “Clarion, to me”.In the shadow place he occupied, the ever obedient sword appeared hovering in front of him. When Erinhue grasped its hilt, his entire perception changed. He was fully upon the battlefield. Clarion screamed in defiance but it was Erinhue’s throat that uttered the cry. Sensing movement to his right, Erinhue reacted with a speed he had never before possessed. In grasping the blade he had embodied the Berserker spirit. Taking delight in the sense of enhanced power, Erinhue attacked his enemies with new vigor. In moments he had hacked his way through to the side of his friends.Those friends were not so pleased to see his approach. They retreated under the new threat and were just as wary of their possessed friend as they were of the Orcs and Uru Kai. They got to experience supreme relief when they saw the Berserker take up a position beside and fight alongside the raging Beorning.

This paring was too much for the remnant of the attacking force. Some threw down their weapons as they fled the field and scurried back into the mountains framing the pass.Tempest’s words came back to him as Erinhue watched the enemy retreat. It was indeed time to return to himself and he had an idea of how that might be done. Beliran had been the only one who was able to stop the Berserker. Erinhue had thought long and hard on this and often came back to the words that The Beorning had spoken to him. Beliran loved him. Possessed or not Erinhue was his brother and Beliran loved him. That was indeed the key to it all.Holding tight to his sword Erinhue called out once more “Clarion, To me.” His own image suddenly stood before him and Erinhue stepped forward and embraced the image.“Well” Tempest snapped “It’s about time you stopped playing at masquerades and stopped scaring the spit out of everyone.”

As the black-iron gate swung inward, the shiny scales of the serpents upon it played in the bright light making them dance and writhe within each other's coils. The Zaugoth's eyes adjusted to the light and found the chamber beyond had been wrought into a perfect cube of the same black granite shot-through with gleaming golden pyrite. He could now see that the light came from a circular shaft hewn in the ceiling. More than twenty yards wide, the shaft rose arrow-straight up through the entire mountain; its length the Zaugoth could not guess. At the far side, some fifty yards away, a roof-like structure jutted from the wall, supported by two massive, intricately-decorated columns of pure pyrite. Encircling the columns were long winged dragons, sculpted from obsidian.

The room was empty. There were no furnishings, no niches in the walls - only the gates behind and the stone awning before him. Not even the dust of centuries of disuse that caked the floors of the rest of Angmar's stronghold was in evidence here. Every surface was perfect, smooth, straight and polished.

But the Zaugoth new that despite the void, here was the center of that power that he had felt, that absolute power. Here also was the center of all the Mithiril Knights had been entangled within: The Red Hand, The Silmaril Knights, The cold-drakes and all that had happened along that road from Tol Brandir, to Dale, to Mirkwood, to Gundabad and the northern ice…and now to Carn-dûm. He could feel that resolution was near - for good or ill.

Physically, the only thing he could feel was heat. It was warmer here than in the rest of the mountain, warmer indeed than it should be. There was also an odor in the black-and-gold chamber, the musky smell of an animal's den.

The Zaugoth inhaled sharply then bellowed, "I am here!"

The echoes of his booming voice that intermixed with one another until it became a painful cacophony. Any mortal would have shied from the din, but not the Zaugoth.

When the last echo had finally died away, a voice heavier than the mountain and deeper than Ulmo's sea responded from the shadows beneath the stone awning, "Name yourself, visitor. None have passed my gate for an age and I would know is so bold."

"I am the son of Angmar and the heir to this realm. I am called the Zaugoth," he said without hesitation.

At that moment a pair of golden orbs, larger even than the eyes of the Great Eagle Meneldor, appeared in the gloom beneath the stone awning.

"Approach, son of Angmar," said the disembodied voice, full of intelligence and malice.

The Zaugoth strode haughtily across the floor, the heels of his tall black boots clicking on the polished granite. When he stopped at the edge of the shadow, the eyes slid towards him until the great reptilian head that bore them revealed itself in the light. Its scales gleamed like those of the granite serpents on the gates and its horns appeared as sharpened onyx.

"I see the eyes of Angmar you have, when he was a man. You also bear his blade. But I also see the marks of Númenor upon you. And you bear the strange metal of the dark elf, Ëol. These things are a mystery to me," said the dragon, "or would be if I hadn't heard tell of your approach, Dirk of Esgaroth!"

Strained silence followed. Dirk withdrew a pace and the dragon advanced, stretching out its great neck.

"Yes, man of Laketown, I know you. Do you think that I have not eyes and ears beyond the walls of my prison?"

The dragon raised its great head toward the light and screeched terribly. Moments later, the light dimmed briefly and there came two more screeches in reply - the cold drakes were circling above the triple peak of Carn-dûm.

"Númenorean, adventurer, swordsman, and Mithril Knight." Dirk sucked air between his teeth. "Oh yes, I knew that too. Your charade may have fooled the maggots, but not me," said the dragon. "But where are my manners? I know you, better than you thought it seems, but you do not yet know me."

With that, the great beast slithered from beneath its awning. Suddenly what had been a giant hall now seemed only a tiny chamber to Dirk. It reared on its hind legs but could not stretch to its full height. The dragon unfurled its giant leathern wings but touched the walls before they reached their full span.

"I am Mauglar the Mighty. As you can see, I have grown much since Sauron sealed me in this chamber. I have grown greater even than my brother Smaug and my father Ancalagon. I was among the first of my kind, brought to being within the bowels of Angband by the true Master, Melkor; and now I am the last and greatest of my kind. I was there when the walls of Gondolin fell. I crushed its stone with my own claws."

Mauglar dropped to all fours and dug his massive fore-claws into the stone, which gave way as if it were newly-tilled loam. He lowered his head until his huge eyes were level with Dirk's.

"There is still more to you than is apparent, isn't there?" Dirk froze as the dragon reached out with a stiletto-sharp onyx claw and ever-so-lightly touched the blood-soaked Galvorn rings at his side. "And there is more to this wound than pierced flesh as well."

Dirk stood silently, suddenly feeling small and lost. Moments passed that felt like ages, until he thought of his friends - and his mission.

"Nevertheless, Mauglar, I am the ruler of this realm and your master by birthright." His voice was shrunken. It had returned to its raspy whisper and was being absorbed by the blackness that surrounded him.

"The heir of Angmar you may be, but not a ruler and never my master," said Mauglar. "However, since you entered into my chamber and declared your identity, you have freed me from my prison, and for that I will not kill you outright. You may rest here until you succumb to your wounds and die peacefully. Let it not be said that I am ungrateful. Farewell, son of Angmar."

With that, the dragon gathered himself over his massive haunches. In the same moment Dirk also prepared to spring. The dark warrior proved quicker. With the absolute last of his strength, Dirk lunged.

Drawing Neleg Amlug as he leapt, Dirk grasped the hilts with both hands, preparing a mighty thrust. Mauglar gasped in pain and surprise as the black blade found purchase between the scales of the dragon's massive chest. Sparks, heat, and dazzling otherworldly light exploded from the confluence of steel and scale as Dirk drove his blade into what would prove to be its final home. For as Dirk slumped to the floor at Mauglar's stamping feet, he held only the hilt in his charred, ruined hands.

"And that… man of the West… will be…your… last act."

The beast raised itself onto its haunches once more. Mauglar then attempted inhale deeply. Instead, he winced in pain and drew his breath in slowly, deliberately. He opened his toothy jaws and Dirk prepared for a mighty rush of flames to erupt.

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But the conflagration never came. Instead the great dragon coughed and sputtered.

"What have you done?!"

Mauglar clawed at his wound, all but invisible between his scales and weeping a noxious green fluid and wisps of acrid smoke.

"You have taken my fire but only temporarily. But you will not be so lucky," his mighty voice now grating like boulders breaking over one another.

With the same sharp claw as before, the dragon pressed into Dirk's side. This time it penetrated between the rings. Slowly, cruelly, Mauglar pierced the flesh of the young Knight's putrid, festering wound. Dirk opened his mouth in a silent scream. Arching his back in agony, his entire body was wracked with terrific spasms.

Then, with a sudden jerk as if he had been bitten, Mauglar withdrew his claw. Dirk slumped silently to the floor once more, clutching at his chest. Roaring in anger and pain, the dragon swept Dirk aside with a foot as if he were a rag doll, sending him into the wall in a crumpled heap. Then with a mighty leap and a rush of wind, the dragon was into the shaft and climbing towards daylight.

****

Some time later, he knew not how long, Dirk awoke. He could not move. He felt no pain. He felt nothing of his body. It was already lost to him. It was quiet and the light had returned. The dragon was loose and it was his fault. He thought of his friends: Erinhue, Vanaladiel, Anorast, Elenath, and Tempest, the Knights in Training, Brondgast and Djazi, and his own apprentice, the Great Eagle Meneldor. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer to Mandos and Tulkas for their protection. When his eyes reopened, tears spilled forth and ran down his nose, falling onto the stone floor and mixing with the blood of his ruined body. He thought of the doom that Mandos and the others had placed upon him and hoped his sacrifice would be enough.

He thought of his foster father and brothers. His home of Laketown and nearby Dale. His eyes would never again behold Erebor at sunrise in all its glory.

Last of all he thought of a beautiful dark-haired warrior woman from Gondor. The tears flowed afresh. He had once dreamed of finishing this quest, finding her, settling down in some beautiful Ithilien glen and raising children. But now that would never happen.

In an almost-inaudible whisper, Dirk uttered his final words into the empty chamber, "Leoba… My love… I am… sorry."

A tattered lady's handkerchief fell from his grip. In it, still as radiant as the last day he saw her, was a lock of chestnut curls. He closed his eyes at last. His last tear fell.

Sir Dirk the Daring of Esgaroth was no more.

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It was a solemn moment at Taniquetil. The Eagles, their piercing eyes, saw all that was transpiring. And a gasp of shock emerged from their beaks as the dragon was loosed, greater than Ancalagon, one they had seen on the Last Day, the day Melkor fell. And was greater. No wonder Sauron had imprisoned him.

There was a murmur. "Warn our brother, warn Meneldor of his deadly danger, my lord!" It grew to a great crescendo.

Thorondor screeched in reply. They were silent. "No. It is not for me to speak. Sorontel must rely on his own wisdom. I have done all I dare do until the day of Dagor Dagorath. Now, it is on the wings of our brother, and he must find the strength and wisdom, without his mentor.

Today is the day that Mandos has decreed, the day our brother either rises to the greatness that has been destined for him, or he will descend to the halls of Mandos, the only one of us who has descended there. Let us all speak to the One on his behalf. He must find the warning within himself, and rally his strength,and that of his new brothers. Now be silent."

And all was silent on Taniquetil, as they bowed in reverence to the one who was now no more for the circles of Middle-Earth. Who would not see his apprentice until the Last day, barring some earth-shattering miracle.

But as this silence spread , this watchfulness, entreaties ascended from the great Servants of Manwë.

As Meneldor flew, harrying the foes who were fleeing, something stirred in himself. Something disturbing. He felt the tremors from below, and feared the worst. But he knew they were there to confront the dragon. But the tremors were greater than he had anticipated. Something was happening, something that hadn't happened since the Elder Days. He cried out in a screech that threatened to shatter the sky above, crying out that something was dreadfully wrong, a challenge greater than he or his new companions had ever faced. How would they meet it? Or would this be the day of their doom?

The long dormant dragonharp reacted to a subtle shift in energies. The once dulled jewel red eyes flashed to fiery life. A shiver ran across the harp's strings as Agarak sighed. Dirk was gone. There was no more time.

Brondgast was in the midst of the battle when he also felt the change coming, the rumbling from beneath. Animals have a sense of what is going on, and he felt the departure of one dear to them all. And the approach of something big and sinister. In response to Meneldor's screech, he roared loud, his roar echoing through Carn Dum.

Meneldor felt the departure of his brother and mentor, due to the bond they shared. He had barely gotten to know Dirk and now he was gone. He gave another screech, with another intensity. The desire for vengeance took him, and he gave the cry, the cry of the Herald of Mandos. The cry which announced there would be more coming to his halls.

While he was giving the cry, the verse he had given his late friend went through his mind:

A star enters the darknessAnd consumes him from within.

He wondered how those words would fulfill themselves. He was just wise enough to know that history rarely repeated itself, and they couldn't depend on Earendil. They would have to do it themselves.

The words had barely left Tempest's mouth as she stood glowering at Erinhue and Clarion ringing in his hand, when the whole world seemed to scream out at once, and the earth shuddered as though taking a long wounded breath. The only creatures unaffected seemed to be the shrieking cold-drakes who now circled from the mountain cliffs in a swirling mass that looked disturbingly like a fast moving cloud in winter.

The sound of rushing wings and the throaty rumble that preceeded it left no doubt in any of the Mithril Knight's minds: a dragon was rising.

But where was Dirk? Tempest cast her eyes toward the mountain searchingly, as though hoping to penetrate the stone with the intensity of her gaze. But to no avail. Whatever passed between the heir of Angmar and Mauglar the Mighty was lost to them.

"It is coming." Erinhue gritted his teeth knowingly.

"Might not Dirk have control of it? Was that not his plan?" Tempest wondered aloud.

"Perhaps, but THAT doesn't sound like control," the bard noted as another peal of thundering roar filled the air around them. Even the orcs were confused and terrified by the sound, for they fled now away from the mountain, leaving the Mithril Knights alone with only the cold-drakes hissing in the wind.

"I knew there would be trouble. We must find Dirk. Curse him for letting me send him alone!" she snapped, though Erinhue heard the edge of worry in her voice. "Why does no one ever listen to me!"

"Well, I have a few suggestions on that topic, but I think they are better saved for a later time. And perhaps a tavern setting with a couple of pints," he answered wryly, though his eyes never left the mountain either.

Elenath's voice was heard briefly above the din, and everyone regrouped quickly to prepare themselves for what might follow. The drakes were still crying out in their shrill voices and circling, but they were not attacking. They were waiting for the dragon, and though the Knights were glad of the reprieve, they knew it was the calm before the storm.

"What can we do against a dragon?" Tempest demanded.

"How can we possibly survive a direct assault?" Vana agreed.

"We can't, at least, not here on the plains. We need to get higher on the mountain side---more possibilities for places to hide." Elenath replied. "So, let's move now, while we have the time and chance."

There had been the battle. Nin had fought other battles in her life, although now, some she did not remember. She rememberd the night, when the orcs attacked the Rohirrim village and Eolynd gave birth Norlin, who would be her niece. She remembered how she had feared for the woman hidden in that house in the middle of burning village and how she had hated those orcs attacking and how fiercly she had felt in killing them. There had been a village and people to defend, there had been a foe she knew and an end of the fight had been near with the end of night. But now, they were far from their own ground, fighting for a cause rather that for a family and winter supplies.

Of course, Nin should remember those battles too, as a Mithril Knight, but she had forgotten about the battle of the Red Dawn of Esgaroth, when the Sickle had been in her hand and she had sliced the dwarf in two. She had forgotten about the attack of hords, when there was no time to know who was your enemy and all you could was fight to stay alive and leash into the next body who turned up in front of your eyes and swords. She had forgotten about that morning after the battle, when she walked over the scattered bodies, her shoes dark form the blood of fallen foes. Once, they were dead, the blood of foes and friends was alike. She had forgotten the stench of corpses rotting on the battle field the morning after. She even had forgotten the fear she had felt then and that she had left, because she did not want to fight any more – never again in her life.

Janaris poison had taken all this from her.

But there in the heat of the attack, she had felt it again, as the screams of wounded and hurt filled the air and the smell of fear and blood. She had run over the battle field, not knowing on what she was running: armours, bones, flesh – all meddled. She did not see the orcs she was called to kill, she did not see her fellow Mithril Knights any more, all herself was lost in the heat of the battle. She heard her own voice scream like the sound of a stranger, she felt no glory, no fear, no hunger for victory, nothing, nothing any more. She was crying and did not know it.

And there, in the middle of this battle she did not understand, where foe fought foe and no friend was in sight, a call like a sign of the storm went through her entire body. Only long after, she understood that the bond between the Mithril Knights was so deep that she had felt the passing of Dirk. As they all had in some way, although they did not know. It was like a shiver of the endless night to come for all, like all winter’s cold in one single moment, a shiver, and more, hurting like the touch of sharp and furious blade.

The air or her mind was becoming clearer again and she became aware that she was not as alone as she had thought or felt to be. Erinhue was on the battlefield, fighting his very own demon beside the fight that they all had to face. Elenath – Vana – Tempest- the bear. What fate had brought them to this same spot in the middle of this field of doom, Nin could not say. She only saw that all were there. Maybe had they not thought of her on that field, as she was still so lost in her forgetting, maybe had the danger just been to high and was it still – somehow, however, she had found them and they had found her. She did still not understand by far what all meant – of Djazi she had not taken notion at all, but where it would go on, they would be together. All was quiet, deadly quiet in this moment when the orcs did not move any more, when the attack ceased and the air even seemed to wait, before the storm would fall upon them. Because that was what Elenath’s words meant: the storm of the dragon would come. And they would have to fight him But to fight him, there was only one possibility first: to survive his coming. They had to run for shelter.